


While the Candles Burn

by Virtuella



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtuella/pseuds/Virtuella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn is late and Arwen knows she ought to be anxious. Why isn't she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	While the Candles Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Linda Hoyland for beta reading.

The heavy darkness of October lay over the Citadel. It was time for the Queen of Gondor to retire for the night, although the King had not yet returned from the meeting with his steward. Demlethril, her maid, had gone through the usual routine with her: the stately garments which Arwen had worn at table removed and set aside for cleaning, the lace-sleeved nightgown donned, her hair unbraided, brushed and tied in a simple plait down her back, her face washed, her teeth cleaned. Spiced wine in a silver goblet stood on her bedside table.

 

“I do not wish to sleep yet, Demlethril.”

 

“What dish, my lady?”

 

Arwen sighed. There was no doubt about Demlethril‘s competence and devotion, but her mistress might have wished that the good woman were a little less hard of hearing.

 

“I shall not go to bed yet,” said Arwen, in a louder and slower tone. “I want to sit a while and think, until the king comes home.”

 

“Very well, my lady. In that case, I shall put in new candles for you.”

 

Demlethril replaced the stubs in the silver candelabra with fresh wax candles and put the candlestick  on the small table beside the armchair where the queen sat.

 

“Will you be wanting a rug to keep you warm, my lady?”

 

“Yes, thank you, Demlethril.”

 

The maid took a blanket of soft green wool from the foot of the bed and wrapped it round the queen, then she brought the goblet of wine and placed it next to the candles.

 

“That will be all.”

 

“Whom shall I call, my lady?”

 

“Nobody,” said Arwen, again raising her voice. “I have no more need of you. Good night, Demlethril”

 

“Good night, my lady.”

 

When the maid had closed the door, Arwen leaned back in her chair and began to sip the wine. She wondered just how late the hour was and what had delayed Estel on his way back from Ithilien. Some unexpected business, no doubt, though it was also possible that Faramir had persuaded him to stay the night. Possible, but less likely, because Estel would not want to give her cause for alarm. Estel, in his innocent regard, always imagined that she would fret if he returned later than expected. However, the truth was that often enough she was surprised to see him home already. She wouldn’t tell him that, of course. He might think it showed a lack of love on her side.

 

As if she could ever be found lacking in love for Estel! No, indeed, it was just that time seemed to flow differently for her. She had lived in the city of Men for twelve years now and she was still trying to get used to the pace. Their days were so _crowded_. At home, in the house of her father or that of her grandmother, people did not rush about as they did here. One talked a little, did a few stitches of embroidery, rose to look out of the window, talked a little more, did a few more stitches, and before one knew it the morning was gone. And what with the midday meal and a companionable hour or two to follow it, what with a walk under the trees to stretch one’s legs and perhaps a couple of pages read in a book or a few verses sung of an ancient song, evening might approach gently and without much ado and the letter one had planned to write would be postponed for yet another day. It hardly mattered.

 

Here, though, there was always a bustle. She was a queen now, obviously, and a mother, and as such her role was vastly different from that of a cherished daughter and lady of leisure. However, she suspected that really this change of pace was mostly due to the nature of Men. She had not previously believed it possible that so many things could be fitted into a single hour, not to mention a day. She would be consulted about the guest list for a diplomatic reception, would walk about the gardens with her children and pay a visit to the ailing wife of a councillor in the Houses of Healing. Then she would give instructions to the dressmaker about a new robe, attend a meeting of the circle of charitable noblewomen, and all this before noon!

 

At first, she had thought that to those living in such haste, time had to fly past quickly. It certainly seemed so at any given moment. Only in recent years had she begun to understand that on the whole, the opposite was the case. Already her few years in Minas Tirith had taken on a weight and significance she was used to discern only in much longer periods of time. So much had happened. And she had _changed_ so much. Where once one year had been much like another, she now at times barely recognised her life from one week to the next. Now she was an exhilarated bride, and next a majestic hostess of royal feasts, now with child, trembling with expectations, and then suddenly a mother, exhausted and confused. At one point, she had tried to learn playing the harp, and soon afterwards given up, she hardly knew why. For a whole winter, she had been a motherly advisor to a jittery girl, daughter to one of Estel’s nobles, who had become her lady in waiting and found it hard to adapt to the courtly customs. Then, as quickly as she had come, she was gone again, married to Imrahil’s youngest son. And so it went on and on.

 

It had surprised her, too, that her children grew up so quickly, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. After all, they had more Mannish than Elven blood in their veins. Thus Eldarion, who had oh so recently been a chubby toddler crying inconsolably when his toy horse fell into the fire, was already a half grown lad, with not much of a mind for toys. He had not cried, but complained very eloquently when earlier that afternoon his careless sister had stepped on his flute and broken it. Still, the children were another thing that filled her days with meaning beyond what she had been accustomed to see in the fleeting time span between sunrise and sundown. None of those around her seemed to find that the least bit unusual. Time, she saw, was more substantial to the mortals. It had slowed down for her, too, but she could still sit with a piece of embroidery and see a day float past like the seed of a dandelion.

 

She had understood this by and by, as she watched the people around her and the changes in herself. And so it had struck her one day with a vehemence that almost took her breath away, that the years of waiting must have felt longer, so much longer to Estel than they had appeared to herself. To her, indeed, they had passed swiftly, so that added to the anxiety she had suffered like everyone else in those years on account of the Shadow, there had been her concern to see his youth waste away almost, it seemed, in the wink of an eye. To him, it must have been an eternity. __

A sound from the door startled her, she turned briskly and her sudden movement knocked over the candelabra. With quick hands, she caught it before the flames extinguished.

 

The door opened and in came Estel. She pushed her blanket aside and rose to greet him.

 

“Forgive me, my love,” he said before he had taken even two steps into the room. “My horse went lame and I deemed it best to send a man back to Faramir’s stables for a replacement. I am sorry I kept you waiting.”

 

“Do not be troubled, Estel,” said Arwen. She softly kissed his brow. “All is well with me.”

 

“You must have been so worried.” His eyes, full of concern, sought hers.

 

“Think nothing of it.”

 

Estel caressed her cheek and then rested his hand on her shoulder.

 

“Arwen, you truly are the paragon of patient womanhood.”

 

She smiled vaguely and allowed him to credit her with a forbearance she had not needed to muster. The candles, she saw, were almost burnt out.

 

 


End file.
